


baptismal.

by lorekeepings



Series: in another life. (dimitri/byleth.) [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Roleswap, Emperor!Dimitri, F/M, Goddess!Byleth, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Religion, Religion Kink, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28798191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorekeepings/pseuds/lorekeepings
Summary: after uniting fodlan under his rule and defeating the false prophetess seiros, emperor dimitri blaiddyd of fodlan has taken his seat upon the throne. his wife, byleth, host of the divine goddess sothis, struggles with her divinity and how it makes him view her, so he reminds her that she is most devoted follower in the best way he knows how: carnal worship. / houseswap au - follows the events of crimson flower with the blue lions defying the church.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Series: in another life. (dimitri/byleth.) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684360
Comments: 1
Kudos: 74





	baptismal.

**Author's Note:**

> alternately titled: dimitri and byleth fuck on edelgard's throne. idk. enjoy this au. i saw art of dimitri wearing the emperor's crown and lost my goddamn mind. yall ever think about how pissed off dimitri would have been to have been loyal to the church all of his life and then be betrayed by seiros's power-hungry ass?
> 
> if you like this and my other writings, please feel free to give me a little tip $motherconjurer on both venmo and cashapp. :) you can follow me on twitter @CANTATRICKS.
> 
> also, reviews > kudos. in the reviews, please tell me which of my existing aus in this series you'd like to see me continue. thank you so much for readings.

“Do you ache?”

The question falls on deafened ears, though green eyes do peer up to the emperor’s throne curiously. The way she showed no emotion, not even a drop of it even after their embrace, drives him mad, and his fingers wrap around the hilt of Areadbhar, gripping tightly and scowling down at her. _Nothing,_ the voice in the back of his head chides him, dissatisfied with their end result now that all of Fodlan is united under the Blaiddyd Crown. But he would never harm her — he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. 

The horned crown feels heavy against his forehead, and the furs that settle on his shoulders are like angel wings that are all too weighty to carry. The people of Fodlan know what they have been gifted: a savior in the form of their emperor, liberating them from the Church and from those who have stood in the shadows for far too long. How could they not be divine, when the Goddess herself stands before the emperor and does not turn him away?

Before the emperor himself can ask for a response proper, her lips part. “I do,” she tells him, hands folded in front of her. “But I do not believe that is the reason you summoned me.”

He looks down upon her, eyes careful as the iceborn ruler admires her. She has not needed to dress in leathers or armor in quite some time, though it is impressive how she does not turn away from the cold of Faerghus. Before him, her hair is shoulder-length and neat, bangs kissing her brow as they had since the day they met. She wears silks, now — and when she is cold, he gives her furs and other fineries. Tithes to a goddess whom he is devoted, always returned at the end of the night with a distant look in her eye.

“Is a man not allowed to miss his wife?” he asks, tongue touching pointed canines.

“Not from up there.”

Her wish is his command, and he rises from the throne to descend down the stairs leading up to it, and as though they have a string pulling them together, she approaches the foot of the staircase, meeting him as he steps finally onto the polished floor of the throne room. They are alone in the late evenings with the torchlight illuminating their skin, and the goddess looks up to meet her husband’s eye. “And from down here?” He asks.

“Acceptable.”

An amused smirk leaves his lips, his hand taking hers— warm to the touch now that she is with pulse, with heartbeat, with _life._ Not only did he save Fodlan from the chains of subjugation at the hand of the Eagle, but he saved the goddess by bringing her vessel to perfection. With their left hands still interlocked, their wedding bands glimmering in the low light, the emperor moves his right hand to stroke gently over her cheek. He touches her with a kindness reserved for their intimacy alone, as no one else would understand. He was blind before, haunted by the Church and by the false prophetess. He could not be anymore, not while he was given immaculate sight.

“Does it ache?” She asks, her fingers touching gently on the silver plate of his armor. “Your crest.”

“No,” the emperor replies, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

“But your blood—”

“Has been purified by you, Your Grace.”

Patiently, the goddess thinks about what it is she wants to say; she is not Sothis in her divine moments. No, it is hard to attach a name to the face that looks back at her in the mirror, but it is so easy to hear it dripping from the emperor’s lips. He has been so devoted to her, even before those who armed themselves with shadow aligned themselves with Edelgard and demanded the destruction of the church: the goddess made the voices in the back of his head disappear and become bearable, and for that, his eternal servitude—no, his _love_ —was the only fitting tithe for the offering plate. 

“Byleth,” he whispers her name, his lips finding her shoulder and kissing where the folds of her silks exposed the slightest bit of skin. It was scar tissue, lighter than the rest of her flesh, and the emperor ached with vengeance at the thought of a sword being brought down against his goddess before he knew to be her lance and shield. “Let me worship.”

The corners of her mouth dry as he pleads with her, and there is a sickening pool forming in her stomach that demands some semblance of clarity. What will become of them when their mortal forms ache and decay into the dirt below? Will Sothis give him to her in the next life, and every life after this, or will they rest in paradise for eternity? 

“Here?” She asks, their eyes burning as their faces grew close with one another.

“There is no more appropriate place,” he whispers, smiling into her skin. “This is a holy place, now.”

“I don’t want anyone to see me,” she tells him, and he cannot help but laugh softly at the almost childish insecurity that sits in her eyes. The almighty Goddess returned to mortality in a body built for a soldier, and she grows bashful at the thought of being nude? 

“I wouldn’t allow that,” he smiles, removing his hands from her completely now, looking upon her. He has already seen what she looks like under those silks: he has already worshipped among church corridors and warfront campaigns, already tasted her and placed her in reverence with his body. One day, he hopes and prays to the woman before him, that she will allow him to revere properly, to allow her belly to swell with new children— a mortal child sired by himself to reshape the Church in a new image. The goddess divine does not need a church that worshipped a power-hungry saint, and instead, those loyal to the goddess knew they had safety in Fodlan proper— Seteth and Flayn ( _Cichol,_ his teachings remind him, _and Cethleann._ ) “Only I may gaze upon you like this. No one else deserves the privilege.”

With this, she gives him her hand, and his cloak forms a sweeping fan around them as he ascends the stairs to return to the throne. It was a brilliant structure of marble and skilled artistry, with his birthright lance hovering directly to the right of it through arcane means. Byleth hesitates, waiting for him to sit, but he gestures for her to sit upon the throne, a careful hand guiding her moments before he settles himself on his knees between her legs.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, a smile curling up onto his features, white hair framing his face. “I have dreamed of this moment often, solidifying my loyalty and the loyalty of my people to you.”

“ _Mitya,_ ” she whispers, her hand reaching down to hold his face. Heart singing with a patient love as he nuzzles into the palm of his hand, preening at the childhood nickname turned lover’s moniker. “I already know you love me.”

“I want to show you,” his voice matches her own, intimate and patient. Hands place on her thighs, looking up to her in reverence— waiting for permission to part them. “Please let me.”

“Just this once. We return to the bedroom after this.” 

Once was all he was asking for. Parting her legs, the emperor moves silken skirts as well, a cold and shuddering breath leaving him as he exposes her to him. Gently, he removes her undergarments, treating each garment with care, folded and stacked at the foot of the throne with near-ritualistic care. His mouth finds her, and she gasps at the sensation. Pride blooms in his chest at the thought of being the only one to be able to worship at the goddess’s feet like this, and he presses kisses to her shins, soft thighs, and then finally, without hesitation, her core. 

Taste was something that the emperor never cared too much about — his tongue finds her without hesitation, without recoil at an unpleasant experience. How could he hate something as divine and magnificent as this, making love and worshipping to the woman who stole his heart, to the goddess he has followed without hesitation? It was never Sothis that was wrong, no— it was Seiros, vile mouthpiece she was, and now that the Immaculate One has shown her true colors and been slain by their joint hands, it is safe to worship, to love. Their radiant light will destroy all shadow.

Pressing his tongue down against her most sensitive bud, the goddess gasps and writhes gently, her hands aching for somewhere to be. They find the arms of the throne, which are too cold and have nowhere for her to grab, then her own silks, crimping under her fingernails, and then eventually, they settle into her husband’s hair, looping around the horned, iron laurel that sits in his hair. Amused, the emperor cannot help but chuckle as his wife calls his name: “Dimitri…”

“Is it good?” He asks, lips damp with his own saliva and her wetness. Looking up at her, he cannot help but marvel at how she has unraveled. Sweat begins to stain her brow, shining gently in the highest places of her face, her eyes dilated and her smile upturned as she looks down at him. When their eyes meet, he’s certain he experiences revelation, and when she nods, he kisses the inside of her thighs in reverence.

“You always take such good care of me,” she admits, her fingers tracing down the side of his face. Chills run up Dimitri’s spine at the contact paired with the whisper, and he smiles brighter at the praise. She knows he likes to hear her praise, and so she gifts it to him in handfuls in their intimacy: the world may expect so much of him, ruler of all, but she will never ask for more than he is already giving her. His devotion, his love— it’s enough. “My sweet boy.” 

He returns to his worship, his tongue sharp as he presses his love between her folds, spreading her open with his fingers and admiring every fold, every curve, and all of the arousal she offered him during their intimacy. When he goes to insert his fingers, her hand falls from his hair to his wrist, calloused fingers wrapping around the joint carefully. A knowing brow quirks from atop the throne, familiar enough with their usual affairs to know that if she wanted, he would bring her to climax without satisfying himself— he would please her until she told him to stop, even at the discomfort of himself. She knows that if she were a lesser woman— a viler woman, a more sadistic woman—she could leave him to finish in the silence of a confessional booth, and he would apologize to the idea of her for allowing himself pleasure. But the goddess—Byleth—loves her most devoted follower. “Only enough to prepare me for you,” she tells him, smiling. “I want to finish with you, this time. A special occasion.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, a boyish wonder sprawling across royal features. “You know I would—”

“Do you doubt me, _Mitya?_ ” she responds, interrupting him, and his face goes red with embarrassment. Without saying anything, he shakes his head, and returns to what he was doing. The first finger enters, and Byleth hums, pleased with the sensation. Is it not enough to discomfort her, but she allows herself to relax in the stone of the throne, her body warming up to his presence. A second finger would join in the moments after, the digits curling up until she mewled quietly at the discovery of her sensitive spots, and a third would leave Dimitri unable to attend to that spot but gift them both the peace of mind that he wouldn’t hurt her during their lovemaking.

“Take your armor off,” she tells him, her robes pulled apart now to reveal more of her supple skin: her breasts exposed for him, her face flushed, her hair rumpled in all the appropriate places. Perhaps if she was wearing her headpiece, it would be lopsided, but she was without for now. “You are not a soldier when we’re together.”

“Of course,” he agrees, deft hands—the right of which is still slick with his wife’s arousal—moving to undo the buckles of the sterling plate. The chestpiece is removed first, then the leg greaves, revealing off-white underclothes— a loose shirt. Cotton pants. Swallowing, he unties the front of his bottoms, pulling them down to his knees and pushing down his undergarments to follow. Already erect due to their foreplay, Byleth reaches out for him, not hesitating even through his protests of unworthiness. She shushes him, dampening her fingers with her wet and stroking it gently over his skin. 

“Go ahead,” she tells him long before he could ask permission, and he moves her legs to drape over each armrest. His fingers separate her folds, and he shudders an overwhelmed breath as he enters her. The tip goes first, their voices already harmonizing in eroticism with each inch that Dimitri pushes into the woman. Once their bodies melded perfectly, he leans down to kiss her, taking his lips in hers as the taste of her still lingered on his tongue and now hers. 

“Dimitri,” she whispers between his kisses. “Don’t make me wait.”

Gasping softly, he nods, rocking in and out of her slowly— then, once he establishes a good rhythm, picks up the pace. The ancient, sturdy throne does not buckle under their ecstasy, nor does it move as the legs were built into the floor. Biting down on her lip, Byleth muffles her own cries, but Dimitri does not ask her to be louder. This hymnal of lovemaking and devotion was reserved for his ears only, and he could hear her loud and clear even with her lips pressed together. He does not moan, but instead grunts and growls— ever her watchful protector, a beast of a man.

How beautiful is she to be so taken apart on his throne? As she succumbs to their ecstasy alongside him, he admires her in his thrusts, his hands holding her thighs or her breasts or her face as he wanders her flesh behind the silks of her authority. A sight reserved only for him, as her most devoted follower — matters of the church were not important to him as it was rebuilt, and he would leave that to Seteth and to Flayn, but there is no person that loved the goddess divine as much as he did. It would be impossible and sacreligious to believe so.

“How much more do you need?” he whispers, his cheeks burning with exertion. “What more can I give you?”

“You’re perfect as you are,” she smiles, her hands resting atop her own breasts as husband and wife rocked into the stone of the throne. “My brilliant and perfect boy. Thank you, Dimitri, for always taking such care of me.”

“It is an honor,” he confesses, “and a privilege, my beloved. My wife. My divine.”

They stay like this for some time, their stamina keeping up with the cold of the throne room. Though they switch their pace and their rhythm several times, including where Dimitri put his hands or what else he pleased on her body while thrusting into her, it comes to a head when Byleth’s chest rises and falls, her body shuddering. “Dimitri,” she confesses, “Please, don’t stop. I’m—”

“I know,” he tells her, smiling. “It’s alright. This is for you.”

Her orgasm comes like a wave, rushing over her body as he grins, his thumb rubbing against the sensitive ending of her clit. Her voice echoes throughout the throne room, reverberating off the walls like an angel’s chorus, and the sound alone brings him closer, but when he pulls away to finish in his hands, her hands rest on his hips. “Stay,” she tells him. “Give me this.”

“You’ll—” he gasps, but the look in her eyes and the way she strokes her hands over his chest and the way she whispers his name as he doubles over, seemingly oversensitive with the presence of him still inside of her after her own orgasm brings him to meet her, spilling inside of her with an embarrassed expression. Once he finishes, sliding out of her, he falls to his knees before her, resting his head against her thigh as she brings her legs together. Enraptured and aroused, Dimitri’s eyes watch as just a bit of his seed spills out of her, the rest of it stopped by the way she clenches her legs together. “Byleth, I am so sorry.”

“Apologizing for something I asked you to do?” she asks, and it is her turn to laugh now as she holds his face, kissing the crown on his head, then his brow, then his nose. “You will need an heir, Dimitri, and I want to live this life with you. A special occasion indeed, no?”

He smiles, his eyes set upon the flesh of her stomach as it returned to being obscured by the robes. If all went well—if the goddess was fertile—her stomach would swell with his child, and she would gift him the gift of life in the form of their child. Blessed by the goddess, indeed. 

“Dress yourself,” she tells him, and he nods, pulling his trousers up and tying them off before placing his armor on his body again. He wraps her up in the fur of his cloak, collecting her in his arms and wiping the throne of the few drops of his seed that left his wife with the inside of it. They giggle, almost mischievously, at what they’ve done, and with care, they return to their bedroom, having completed their worship. 


End file.
